


Mouthwash

by opheliasnettles



Category: King Lear - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, F/F, Genderbending, Lesbian Character, Smoking, anyway. helloooo lesbian arts major edmund, please find a normal coping mechanism, wow! everyone’s got daddy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29879853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliasnettles/pseuds/opheliasnettles
Summary: It’s all supply and demand, Edmund thinks. She is just giving what is wanted. Sometimes they just don’t know what they want until it’s there.And if she gets a few strategic handholds in Lear’s family? Well, that’s just meant to be, isn’t it.
Relationships: Edmund/Regan (King Lear)
Kudos: 8





	Mouthwash

**Author's Note:**

> TW: homophobia, parental issues, implied/off-screen sex, alcohol, smoking, references to and discussion of self-harm, brief reference to an eating disorder

It’s all supply and demand, Edmund thinks. She is just giving what is wanted. Sometimes they just don’t know what they want until it’s there. 

And if she gets a few strategic handholds in Lear’s family? Well, that’s just meant to be, isn’t it. 

-

She’s Regan’s acquaintance, almost friend now, the timid little doe-eyed girl from the twelfth floor, and it’s been just long enough she can call late at night about an emergency.

Her hair is curly instead of the stick-straight she had for Goneril, and she tangles it with her fingers. She mixes a quarter of a tablespoon of salt into a glass and drops it under her eyes. She rubs more salt on her lips until they begin to crack and peel. 

She’s carefully selected her clothing, a pale purple silky vintage slip dress. The fabric is cool on her skin. Theoretically, one could sleep in it, and therefore it is reasonable for Regan to assume Edmund was on her way to bed. Edmund lightly rubs fake tears into her shoulders and clavicle, watching the light shine in the bathroom mirror. 

The phone she uses to fake texts is safely stowed in the cabinet under the sink. She’s sent messages from her ‘father’ - vitriolic hate speech. Dig her nails into Regan's heartstrings a little. 

She stows the salt in the cupboard and the spoon in the dishwasher, shuts off the lights, tosses the heat packs she used to warm up her bed into the medicine cabinet, and musses the sheets a little more until she's ready for the call. 

Regan's number is saved as 'Regan (second floor)', and Edmund takes a deep breath, settles herself with her legs tucked under herself and hits the call button. 

The line rings. 

"Hello?" comes Regan's voice, bleary but professional. 

“Is this Regan?” Edmund whispers, shakily. 

“This is she. Is something...wrong, Edmund?” Regan’s voice softens. 

_ Perfect.  _ “Yeah, I- well, it’s no -” a pause for a weak sniffle- “it’s no big deal, it’s just - God, I’m sorry, it’s just my  _ dad _ -” a breath to let that stone drop and then a sharp, clipped sob, her hand in her mouth to muffle her cry. “He’s - he was - I don’t - I’m worried I’ll do something  _ stupid _ …” She gathers another sob. 

“What’s your apartment number?” Regan asks, her voice blunt but scared. 

“12c,” Edmund says, shifting to an apologetic waver, “but I really - I really don’t want to bother you, it’s all - I mean, I’m fine, I shouldn’t’ve called, I’ll be fine…”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Regan assures, and Edmund can hear her rustling on the other end. “Don’t - don’t do anything.” 

With that, Regan hangs up. 

Edmund checks the mirror a few feet away on her dresser to make sure her eyes look shiny and her cheeks look red enough. They don’t, so she pinches her skin tightly between her thumb and forefinger until she looks suitably flushed. 

There is a box of tissues on her nightstand, which she adjusts to be more obvious, then sets herself back down in the hot middle of the bed, swirling her skirt around her like a pool. 

Regan knocks at the front door and then opens it before Edmund can get a word in. 

“Edmund?” Regan’s voice is sharp, staccato - she’s scared. 

“In here,” Edmund croaks, and Regan appears in the doorway. She’s wearing one of those old-fashioned pyjama sets, black with a blue and red pinstripe, a buttoned shirt with short sleeves, a useless pocket, a cute collar, pants that hit her ankles perfectly. She has slippers, grey ones that look soft and expensive. Her hair is loose. She looks worried. 

“You haven’t... _ done _ anything, have you?” Regan asks, eyes flickering around the room and resting on the painkillers on the windowsill. 

“No, no,” Edmund shakes her head, wiping her tears on the heel of her palm. Regan exhales and gestures to the bed, somewhat awkwardly. 

“May I?”

“Go ahead.” Edmund sniffles and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. Regan grabs the tissues and hands them to her. Edmund cracks a weak smile while she takes one with shaky fingers and wipes her face. 

Regan sits. The mattress creaks. She smells like coconut and expensive candles. “What...happened?” she prods, her hands curling around the edge of the bed. 

“My  _ dad _ \- I should just show you,” Edmund says, adding an undertone of bitterness while she pats around for her phone. Hands trembling, she illuminates both of them in white-blue light, clicking on the little messaging app and then on her father’s name. Her breath wavers as she bites her salty lips, shoving the phone into Regan’s hands. 

“Edmund, I’m - sorry,” Regan says, clumsily, as she scrolls. Edmund leans on her shoulder and sniffles. Her pyjamas are perfumed, Edmund notes. Rich people. 

“It’s not - I mean, I knew it would happen, I don’t know why I’m so fucking sad about it -” Edmund lets out a suppressed cry. “I don’t know. I thought things might be different if it was his daughter…”

She gives her most convincing sob. Regan bites her lip and keeps scrolling, rubbing Edmund’s back. Edmund absorbs the tenderness. It’s strange, she muses, Regan didn’t even need a prompt...perhaps she’s just one of those tactile people. Edmund feels like a soft mass of chewed gum. 

“Your  _ father… _ ” Regan rests a hand over her mouth, then, quietly, under her breath, “ _ Cordelia! _ ”

The pathos of Edmund’s plan is working. “He’s- he’s a bitch,” Edmund chuckles, weakly. Regan nods and readjusts herself. 

“If you ever...if you ever need anything,” Regan whispers, sucking air through her teeth, “a loan, or rent, or a job…”

Well, isn’t that perfect! Not that Edmund needs money - she’s got plenty, but a loan of some petty amount, three hundred dollars or so, given back, that builds  _ trust _ . 

“I’m fine. I don’t- don’t want to be any trouble-“ she coughs, gently. 

“No, no,” Regan says, staring at the text that reads  _ I didn’t raise you good so you could turn around and become a lesbian _ . She clicks Edmund’s phone off sharply and tosses it on her bedside table. “You should get some rest.”

“I probably should,” Edmund chuckles, pulling her airy duvet around her shoulders and dropping sideways onto the mattress with a thump. Her hand brushes against Regan’s, who jolts a little at the touch. Her skin is smooth. She must use expensive hand cream. 

“You can call me if you need me,” Regan says, warm. Edmund looks up at her. 

“I- I don’t mean to...you can say no, I was just- would you stay? Just until I fall asleep.” Edmund gives her the best sweet weak smile she can offer. 

“Of course,” Regan says, and reaches for the lamp. 

-

When Edmund has well and fully pretended to fall asleep, she feels Regan lean over her and press a gentle, hesitant kiss to her forehead. 

Perfect. 

-

“It’s sort of an apology-slash-thank you,” Edmund says, gesturing at the table. “And I’m no chef, so...I settled on takeout. I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.”

“No, Edmund, this is very...sweet of you.” Regan sets her teal leather bag down gently next to Edmund’s umbrella stand (which, notably, does not have any umbrella, only the neck of a plastic flamingo and several wilted-looking sticks). She’s wearing a black pencil skirt and a white blouse, one with buttons and crinkly little cap sleeves, a slight v in the neck, as well as some form of heels that look too pointy in all directions. 

Edmund looks like an arts major, which technically she  _ is _ , but she’s wearing a grey-purple velvet jumpsuit, a blazer jacket with a print of Monet’s  _ Water Lilies  _ (sleeves crumpled, of course), thick black platforms, dark lipstick (all the better to leave lip prints with; this brand doesn’t stain), and abstractly face-ish earrings.

Together, they look positively goofy. 

“Have a seat, Regan,” Edmund offers, pulling out a chair at her circular dinner table. Regan graciously accepts it. 

“Are you feeling better now?” she asks, as Edmund settles herself in. 

“Oh, much,” Edmund returns, reaching for some noodles to pile onto her plate. They smell of sesame oil. “It was just...a lot.”

“I can understand that,” Regan says, perusing the selection in front of her. She won’t make eye contact. 

“I’ll be okay soon enough,” Edmund says, through a mouthful of spring rolls. She swallows. “Last week...thank you, Regan. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“It was really no problem, Edmund,” she says, taking moderate helpings of everything. 

“Ah, well, it must’ve been a little inconvenient, anyway.”

Regan cracks a little smile. Edmund keeps making horribly dull small talk for twenty minutes or so, just until Regan has softened up. 

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask - who’s Cordelia?” Edmund takes a nonchalant bite of broccoli. 

“Oh,” Regan chuckles, wiping her mouth with her napkin, “that’s my sister.”

“The one who lives upstairs?”

“No, no, that’s my other sister. Goneril. Cordelia...it’s a little touchy, Edmund. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“By all means, go ahead.”

“When my father was writing his will, we were all sitting there, all three of us sisters, in this lawyer’s office and discussing properties and houses and money and Cordelia didn’t say a word until she said ‘I’m getting married’, and we all looked at her, and then she said ‘I’m getting married to a woman named Frances’, and my father said ‘I didn’t raise you like that’, and she said ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Dad’, and he said ‘Get out’, and she did. She just picked up her purse and stood up and smoothed her skirt and  _ left _ . And we were all in shock, me and Goneril and my father and none of us knew what to do after that. My dad called her a bunch of names like he was twelve. Goneril and I just looked at each other. I suppose we sort of knew that if either of us was...was gay, not that we are -”

_ Yes you are _ , Edmund thinks, putting on a pity expression and reaching across the table to grab Regan’s hand. 

“That we’d never get the freedom she did. Never get to leave. Cordelia’s called a couple times. I saw her last year. We went out for breakfast, just me and her. She looked good. She used to - she had...habits. But she’s better now, gained weight, stopped smoking. Moved to the coast and married a beautiful woman. It all worked out for her. And I’m happy for her, of _course_ I’m happy for her, but…” Regan leans back in her chair and rubs her neck. “But we don’t have that luxury, me and Goneril. We have to stick with our father. If one of us left - we couldn’t do that to the other one. And if my father had raised not one but _two_ daughters who...he’d kill us both.”

“I’m sorry. About all of it.”

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

“It’s just... _ instinct _ .” Edmund’s hand slides up Regan’s arm, just a little. She feels her pulse speed up. “You said you aren’t interested in women?”

“No. Well — well I don’t  _ know.  _ Even if I was, there’s no point...I’m married, anyway.” 

“You don’t wonder?” Edmund flashes the tiniest grin. It’s going wonderfully. 

“I wonder. Sometimes I do. I wish it was different, Edmund. I’m horribly selfish. I wish I could pull the shit Cordelia did. She was such an angel. Did no wrong, my dad said, and he never noticed when she had flings or smoked or cut herself or went to bars or anything, he just saw his pretty little perfect miracle daughter and we’d never be able to do that, me and Goneril. We’d never be able to do that. It was so easy for her, everything was so  _ fucking  _ easy-“ She’s crying now, her face is red and she’s almost shouting, and it’s certainly not what Edmund expected. 

“Hey, Regan,” she says, rubbing her thumb over her inner forearm, “It’s okay. I can see why you’d want what Cordelia got. I imagine it would be hard to live under your father’s thumb like that. But - if what you want is  _ freedom _ …” She leans in slightly, holding the silence until she can hear Regan draw in a shaky breath, “there’s nothing stopping you from finding freedom now.”

“I…” Regan starts. Edmund draws her fingers slowly down Regan’s arm, holds her wrist with care. 

“You’ve never kissed a woman?” Edmund draws Regan’s forearm up, her head tilting down while she maintains eye contact. 

“Never,” Regan whispers. 

“Shame,” Edmund says, and kisses the inside of Regan’s wrist. Her skin is oddly soft, and smells like daisies, and Edmund can taste her perfume, which is gross, but she sticks with it for a second. 

“Oh,” Regan says. 

Edmund is leaning far across the table now, and she lifts her head and she and Regan are nose-to-nose, so close she can feel a bit of Regan’s hair get stuck in her mouth and taste her coconut and sea salt conditioner, and after just a moment she whispers “Well?”, and Regan kisses her. 

She’s a weirdly aggressive kisser. Edmund has to steady herself on the table. But Regan seems into it, at least, and she lifts a hand to grab at the back of Edmund’s neck, and it’s surprisingly nice, actually. 

“I should go,” Regan says, shaky, pulling back, pushing out her chair, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Edmund is still leaning over the table, awkwardly. 

“Do you want to?” Edmund asks. She reaches out a hand, brushes her fingers against the side of Regan’s jaw. Regan leans into it, exhaling. 

“No,” she admits. 

Edmund sits on the tabletop and shuffles over so she’s right next to Regan, looking down, and her hand slides up to Regan’s cheek, and her thumb plays gently with the edge of Regan’s mouth. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“Okay,” Regan says, grasping at Edmund’s hand with her own, pupils dilating. 

“I won’t breathe a word to anyone.” Edmund leans down to press her nose to Regan’s neck, who shudders. 

“Good.”

“And if you tell me to stop, I will.” Edmund kisses Regan’s throat, carefully, gently. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” Regan says, her hand stroking Edmund’s hair, her throat catching in stops and starts, pressing her head into Edmund’s. 

“I won’t, then.” Edmund grins into the tendons of Regan’s neck and reaches for the buttons of her blouse. 

-

After, Regan is shaky and a little dazed. Edmund carefully kisses her cheek. 

“Do you want some water? I could get you something to eat, if you’d like,” Edmund offers, stroking Regan’s jaw with her index finger. Regan shivers. 

“Water would be nice,” Regan breathes. Edmund murmurs an affirmation then very slowly sits, stands, walks to the doorway. 

Her kitchen feels cold, so she gets the glass as fast as she can and returns to Regan, who accepts it gratefully. 

“You were good, Regan,” Edmund says, running her fingers through Regan’s loose hair. 

“Was I?” she mumbles. 

“Yes, of  _ course _ ,” Edmund soothes, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You listened. Very useful skill.” Regan laughs, softly, and Edmund presses a kiss to her temple and whispers “good girl”, which Regan responds to by pressing her head against Edmund’s hand. Like a cat. Or a python, maybe. 

-

Regan rustles through her purse, retrieving a cigarette and lighter. She slumps into the corner of the fire escape. 

“You don’t mind?” she asks, cigarette already in her mouth but thinking for a moment before she lights it. 

“Go ahead,” Edmund says, taking a sip of her champagne before refilling Regan’s glass. 

Regan lights it with a few awkward clicks. She exhales a heavy cloud of smoke over the side of the platform. Edmund ignores the smell. 

“I don’t smoke much,” she explains, tapping her cigarette on the railing. “I’m just”- she rubs her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut- “what the hell am I doing, anyway? Christ, I’m  _ married _ .” She looks at the sliver of moon with a melted expression. 

“When was the last time you did something for yourself?” Edmund asks. A very innocent question, but Regan is not the type to have an easy answer. 

She takes a heavy drag on the cigarette. 

“Ages,” Regan says, drinking a hearty mouthful of champagne. 

“Don’t you deserve something? A little indulgence?”

“It doesn’t feel like I do.” Regan sighs. Edmund leans against her and kisses her collarbone through the thin robe. 

“Well, it felt good, didn’t it?”

Regan chuckles. “It did. Very good, actually.”

“You’re just catching up on what you missed in your youth,” Edmund rationalizes. Her hand rests around Regan’s waist, and she kisses the hollow of her neck. 

“Ah, maybe.” She turns away to exhale a cloud of smoke. “I’m just doing what Cordelia did, little perfect angel baby.  _ Sans _ the self-destruction, I suppose. But this still counts as...what is it? A tryst? An affair? Are we  _ lovers? _ ” She giggles. “That sounds stupid.”

“I don’t know,” Edmund says, trying to block out the cigarette smell.  _ Sans self destruction, sure. Keep thinking that.  _

“Ah, if my father could see me now. He’d probably call me a slut. Or a bitch. Or both! Why choose.” She drains her glass. 

“Your father sounds like an asshole,” Edmund says. 

“Oh, he is. Massive prick. He should have sex or something. I swear we were all conceived via dark magic. No way he’s fucked anyone.” Regan laughs. She’s definitely sort of tipsy - maybe not the best idea on a fire escape, but Edmund’s got an eye on her. “Edmund, did I - did tell you, when I was younger I used to see women, and I’d think about kissing them, and then I’d hate myself for it, so I Pavlov’d myself out of that by rinsing my mouth out with boiling water every time I thought about it. Like mouthwash. I completely forgot about that until you kissed me.”

_ What the fuck _ , is Edmund’s first thought, and then  _ yikes,  _ and then  _ how would you just forget about something like that _ . 

“I’m sorry,” Edmund says. 

Regan shrugs and takes another drag on her cigarette. “It’s in the past. I’m fine now.”

_ You most certainly aren’t,  _ Edmund thinks. 

“Cheers to that,” she says, raising her glass. 


End file.
